The Bore of the Hunt, l8S 



says I."- And then the jolly old sportsman will chuckle 

 and wheeze, at the recollection, until he is purple in the 

 face. 



Everybody likes old John. Tom Tootler and his whips 

 cap him as if he were a peer of the realm, and Lord 

 Daisyfield is supposed to come down from his pedestal, 

 and unbend more to old Jacky than any one member ot 

 the Hunt. Such a staunch old Nimrod is worth pre- 

 serving ; so, as Rip Van Winkle would say, " may he live 



long and prosper." 



****♦« 



'' Oh, Sir Harry, say you're not dead ! do say you're 

 not dead ! " exclaims, in tones of the deepest distress, 

 a stoutish lady of middle age, wearing spectacles, and a 

 brigand hat with a large cock's feather in it, riding up 

 to a little knot of horsemen who are assisting to bring 

 Sir Harry Hieover to, after a heavy fall, got on landing 

 over a big drop fence. Mrs. Cackler is a remark- 

 able woman in her way, and decidedly of the pushing 

 sort. For instance, she does not know Sir Harry 

 Hieover in the least — he, indeed, is only an occasional 

 visitor in these parts — but on the strength of his fall 

 Mrs. Cackler will be sure to push her acquaintance on the 

 baronet the very next time he makes his appearance with 

 the Harkaway Hounds. Mrs. Cackler, or old Mother 

 Chatterbox as the wags call her, lives in a mildewy- 

 looking little house, close to the high-road, with a stable 

 at the back wherein dwells the fiery steed she rides and 

 drives, and which stable she herself may be seen cleaning 

 out every morning with her own fair hands — for she keeps 

 no groom. On these occasions Mrs. Cackler, in her stable- 

 jacket, and her figure, just a trifle run to seed, unconfined 



